He hurried towards her, held her at arms' length and watched her laughing and crying all in one. She was dressed in the old boat-cloak he kept at the house for touring the grounds in cold weather. A button missing, a rent near the hem. When it lifted to the wind he saw she was wearing a plain dark red gown beneath. So far a cry from the fine carriage and the life she had once shared.
Then Bolitho clutched her against his body, feeling her wet hair on his face, the touch of her hands. They were like ice, but neither of them noticed.
'I was going to write -' He could not go on.
She studied him closely, then gently stroked his brow near his injured eye.
'Val told me everything.' She pressed her face against his, while the wind flung their cloaks about them. 'My dearest of men, how terrible it must have been. For you and your old ship.'
Bolitho turned her and put his arm over her shoulders. As they mounted the path over the hill he saw the old grey house, light already gleaming in some of the windows.
She said, They say I am a sailor's woman. How could I stay away?'
Bolitho squeezed her shoulder, his heart too full to speak.
Then he said, 'Come, I'll take you home.'
He paused at the bottom to help her over the familiar old stile-gate where he had played as a child with his brother and sisters.
She looked down at him from the stile, her hands on his shoulders. 'I love thee, Richard.'
He made the moment last, sensing that peace like a reward had come to them in the guise of fate.
He said simply, 'Now it's your home, too.'
The one-legged ex-sailor named Vanzell touched his hat as they passed; but they did not see him.
